


Ranch Hands, by Allie

by hutchynstarsk



Series: Ranch Hands [1]
Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: AU, Gen, Grief, Historical AU, post-WW1, ranch story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:46:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch has trouble feeling anything.  Not that he wants to.  Then Starsky enters his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ranch Hands, by Allie

Ranch Hands

Ch 1

The new guy came in from New York, and you could tell.He wore jeans, but like they were a fashion statement.They looked too new, even for a cowboy-wannabe.

And the way he swaggered in them set the men all on edge, made them exchange irritated looks and glare at him.He didn’t appear to notice, just looked thrilled to be here.He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and walked right up to the boss.

“Dave Starsky.Reportin’ for duty.”He gave a sloppy salute and a big grin and nod to the head man, Ogilvy.“Can ya tell me what I’m gonna be doin’, and when I get my horse?”He looked around, cheerful, excited and such a greenhorn.

Hutch tilted his hat down, and re-coiled his rope, keeping his head down, hoping not to be noticed. If only he hadn’t done so well last month teaching that new kid the ropes…

“Hutchinson!Over here!” barked Ogilvy.

Great.Just great.

Hutch lengthened his steps, striding over.He swung the rope over his shoulder and tilted his hat to keep the sun from his eyes.“Boss?”As if he didn’t know what was coming.

“Teach Starky here the ropes.”Ogilvy jerked a thumb at the new guy, shifting the straw he was chewing to the other side of his mouth.

“Um…that’s Starsky…” said the new guy.

“Yeah.That.Oh, and he bunks with you, Hutchinson.”

Hutch’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed.Hutch had felt lucky to have the coveted room in the barn, away from all the other men, near the horses.He was a trusted man on the ranch with more responsibility than anyone else but Ogilvy.Some would have said it was because he’d been a pilot in the Great War (a job everyone thought glamorous), but Hutch had earned his spot by hard work.

He’d also enjoyed having his own room on the ranch, even if it was the tack room.Since Old Hugh had died, he’d had it to himself.No way did he want to share with some upstart, two-bit, big-city, full-of-himself hotshot!

But like always, Hutch knuckled down to work and kept his complaints to himself.It was one of the traits that had gotten some of the men to refer to him as Mr. Talkative.The first time he’d heard it, Hutch hadn’t known who they meant.Then he saw the glances his way, and the way they shut up when they noticed him.He’d walked past, his face revealing no emotion.Without speaking, he’d gotten his chow, sat down, and began to eat.Mr. Talkative.Great.He had a nickname.

Now he faced the new guy with what he hoped was a similar blank expression, one that didn’t portray the irritation he felt.

“Get your gear.”He turned away, not waiting to see if the new guy followed.

Jingling footsteps started after him.“Yeah.Got it right here.All set.Got spurs and everything.”

“If you need spurs, you’re not riding right.”Hutch threw out the advice without thinking.He hadn’t meant to give the new guy any advice right off the bat. _But I’m not letting him abuse the horses, either!_

“Sheesh…all right.Don’t get your panties tied in a knot.”

Hutch threw him a scornful glance back.This guy sure had nerve.

They reached the barn and Hutch reluctantly opened the bunkroom door for him.“I’ve already got the top bunk so you’re stuck on the bottom.”

Starsky dropped his sack and bedroll.“Nice digs!”He looked around the small tack room with admiration.

“Yeah.It’s all right.And I like my PRIVACY,” said Hutch, emphasizing the word.“So keep it down and mind your own business.”

“Hey.Not a problem.I was in the army.I know how it works.”He raised his hands as though surrendering.

Despite himself, this piqued Hutch’s interest.“You were in the army?”

“Yeah.You?” said Starsky.

“Pilot.”

“Pilot!Really?!Wow!You flyboys got all the good press. I was just a grunt in the mud trenches.”Starsky grinned at him, and reached out to give him a light sock on the arm.

Hutch looked at him with the blank expression he’d mastered, and Starsky let his arm drop, looking uncertain.Then he plopped on the bottom bunk and grinned.“So tell me, did ya down a lotta planes?Did ya make ace?”

“What do you care?”Hutch turned to the ratty old dresser, and yanked open one of the drawers on the left.He ripped out his tack stuff, shoved it into one of the drawers on the right on top of his clean shirts, and did the same with his socks and undershirts from the other drawer on the left, shoving them on top of his pants and long johns.He pointed to the now-empty drawers.“Those two are yours.Keep out of mine.”

“Yessir, Cap’n.”Starsky gave him a sloppy, mocking salute, and a big, crooked grin.His eyes danced with amusement at Hutch’s annoyance, as if inviting him to laugh at himself. 

It kind of made Hutch want to punch him in the face, actually.

“Put your stuff away and don’t take all day about it.I’ll show you the stables you’ll be mucking out.”He let the door shut behind him with a bang.

#

Hutch had to admit that Starsky did pretty well, for a newbie.He retained his cheerful attitude and the bounce in his step even after a hard day mucking stalls with nary a break.He managed to laugh it off when some of the guys tripped him into a pile of manure, ruining his just-changed clothes and making him late for supper.

Everyone stared at him when he entered—some of them even stopped chewing for a moment—but Starsky just surveyed the room, and headed towards the food. 

“Come late again and you can go without,” said Gunderson, the cook.He slopped a big scoop of potatoes onto Starsky’s plate.Starsky just ducked his head and smiled agreeably, and headed over to the tables.

_ Not here.Not here.Don’t you dare come here. _ Hutch stopped chewing a moment, willing him away.He felt Starsky’s roving gaze stop on him.Sure enough, the cheerful footsteps (and how could even footsteps be cheerful?!), headed over.The curly-haired newbie scraped back a chair opposite him.

“Hiya.Whatcha got for me to do tomorrow, hm?”He raised his eyebrows, and dug into the chow.

“You can clean the rest of the stalls, and we’ll get you started on learning to rope, and see if you can ride.After that, if you can still walk, you can work on digging fence post holes.”Hutch took a wrathful bite of chicken-fried steak. _Serve him right for asking while I’m eating!_

Starsky just nodded.“Sounds good.”He dug into his potatoes with almost criminal glee.Hutch paused to stare at him in surprise and disgust.He was actually licking his plate.Did the man have no manners?

Starsky caught him staring, and lowered the plate from his face.Some potatoes had stuck to his nose.“What?”

“Haven’t you eaten in a week?” said Hutch.

Starsky shrugged.“It’s been awhile.And the food’s good.” 

Gunderson’s runny potatoes?The man was a good ranch hand, and his meat wasn’t bad, but the man cooked some of the worst potatoes Hutch had ever tasted.

Starsky gave his plate another long lick, and began eying Hutch’s uneaten food in an entirely too speculative manner.Hutch had a mental image of the starved, curly-haired upstart lunging across the table for his food.He pulled his plate closer to him, shielding it with one hand.“You can go back for seconds, you know.”

“I can?Wow!”Starsky bounced up out of his seat, plate in hand, a wide grin on his face.He strutted up to the food again, his rear waggling in his too-tight blue jeans.

Hutch turned back to his own food, shaking his head.

Starsky managed to put away two more very full plates, and would’ve eaten more, if Gunderson hadn’t yelled at him.“No!You’ve had enough!”Then he threatened Starsky with a potato-coated ladle.Starsky headed back to sit opposite Hutch, his expression turning glum for the first time all day.

“Oh, come on.You don’t want to burst.”Hutch found himself reaching across the table and giving the darker-haired man a slap on the shoulder.Starsky rewarded him with a quick grin.

“Don’t suppose you want that last biscuit?”Starsky pointed at Hutch’s plate hopefully.Hutch picked it up and flung it at Starsky, aiming at his head.

Starsky caught it and grinned.He ripped off a quick bite and chewed enthusiastically.“Thanks!” he said around his mouthful of biscuit.

#

He snored.That was the worst of it.On the top bunk, Hutch gritted his teeth and rolled over again, pausing to punch his pillow into some semblance of a comfortable position.

You would think, after living through the Great War, Hutch would’ve learned to sleep through anything.Actually, the effect was the opposite: bad dreams made him sleep lightly, and the slightest sound could awaken him instantly, ready for an enemy’s attack, as his mind reverberated with the faces of fallen friends and foes.

He pushed a foot against the wall, and gave the bunk a good, creaky shake.The snoring was interrupted for a moment, and Hutch’s gritted teeth relaxed.He punched his pillow again and rolled over to face the wall.

A gentle ‘sna-a-a-ck’ sound, a smack of the lips, and Starsky started up again.

_ I miss sleeping alone.I really do. _ Hutch sighed, sat up and flung his legs over the side.He grabbed his blanket and jumped down, making sure to shake the bed vengefully on his way down.He shivered a little, and wrapped the blanket around himself.His long sleeping shirt was barely there in spots.He bent over the bed, grabbed Starsky’s shoulder, and shook him awake.

“Sn—onk!Wha—?”Starsky blinked around and half sat up.“S’goin’ on?”

“Quit snoring, or you’re out.I mean it.”Hutch released his shoulder with a shove, sending him back to his prone position.He climbed up the bunk and lay back down.

He was just starting to fall asleep when the snoring began again.

“All right, that’s it!You’re out!”Hutch jumped out of bed.In a couple of short moments, Starsky stumbled out at a half run.A blanket and a pillow flew after him.“And stay out!”Hutch slammed the door.He rubbed his temples, sighed, and climbed back up to bed.

#

Hutch was up and dressing the next morning, having finally wrenched a few hours of sleep from the night, when the door burst open.

Starsky came stumbling in, soaked from head to toe, straw stuck to his plastered-down hair.He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, finally got them undone and ripped his shirt off.

Hutch stopped and stared, one boot half on.The skinny, muscular, hairy chest showed ribs—and scars.“What happened to you?”

“Got me with a bucket of water.Think it was Roy.”Starsky’s teeth chattered.He ripped the sheet off the bottom bunk and started drying himself.“’Xcuse me, Hutch.Gotta get dry and changed.”

Hutch regarded him skeptically.“Well, hurry up about it.You’ll be late for breakfast.”

“I know.Don’t wanna.”Starsky’s teeth chattered and he was shivering visibly.He went to his drawer, grabbed a thin, faded shirt and a second pair of jeans so worn they were threadbare and see-through in spots.

Oh.

He hadn’t been showing off.He’d been wearing his one good pair.

“I’ll loan you a second shirt.Don’t rip it.”Hutch dug into his drawer and retrieved a soft, gray shirt he often wore under another shirt when it was cold.“Now get out there and shovel some manure before breakfast.There’s only two ways to work off a chill like that.One of them’s working hard, and the other’s lounging in front of a fire.We don’t have a fire and you don’t have the leisure to lounge.”

“I’ll g-g-get on that…r-right away.Th-thanks for the shirt.”

“That’s no special favor.I’d lend a drowned dog a shirt.”Hutch shut the door behind him and went to find the culprit.“Hey, Roy.You want to cut the new guy some slack?It’s his second day.”

Roy was a big bruiser with cropped-short hair burned almost as light as Hutch’s.

“Aw, c’mon, Hutch!Don’t go all mother-bear on me.You kicked him out.I thought he was fair game.”

Wonderful.This was Hutch’s fault now?

“Well, he’s not.So give the kid a break and let him settle in.”He clapped a hand hard on Roy’s shoulder—a warning, not a friendly gesture.“Right?”

“Okay, Hutch, whatever.Didn’t know you…”His voice trailed away.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.I didn’t say anything.”

“Don’t be late for breakfast.And don’t forget you were digging rocks out of the big field today.”

“Aw, c’mon, Hutch!I thought you’d get the new kid to do that?!”

Hutch turned to look at him, letting him have it with both barrels of the icy Hutchinson stare.Roy’s gaze dropped first.“I’ll get right on that, Hutch,” he mumbled.

He waited until Hutch was out of earshot to start badmouthing him and complaining.

Ch 2

At breakfast, Starsky was jittery—sweaty, but still acting cold.He got a big plate of food, but hung his head over it, looking like he didn’t know if he could actually eat.

“What’s the matter?You sick?Eat up, bucko.You’ve got a big day ahead of you.”Hutch gave him a slap on the shoulder on his way to put his plate in the sink and find out from the boss which livestock he needed to check on that day.

When he returned, most of the men were heading out.

Starsky had his head down on the table, sound asleep.Snoring.

_ New guys.Always the same.Think they’re so tough. _ The reality was it took everyone awhile to adjust to the workload, even if they’d worked on a ranch before.Different rules, different people, different skill sets and schedules—not to mention the backbreaking, grueling labor they were often set to test their strength and willingness to work.

Anyone who would quit after a few days of rough work wouldn’t be wanted anyway in the branding season, when the real hard work began.

“Hey.”Hutch grabbed his shoulder and shook him awake, none too gently.“Get up, soldier.Time to work!” he shouted in Starsky’s ear.Several people at other tables watched, and grinned, hiding their amusement unsuccessfully.This was the first time a new kid had actually fallen asleep during breakfast—and the first new guy that soft-spoken Hutch had ever yelled at.

“Whu—I’m not—” Starsky jerked awake and looked around frantically.

“Yes you were—sleeping through breakfast.”Hutch gave him another hard slap on the back.“Looks like the pigs will get yours.Grab those biscuits—you can keep them for later.Now git!You’ve got some fence post holes to dig, boy.”

He didn’t want to be too tough on this new guy, but some people would do anything to get out of work—including, apparently, sleeping through breakfast—and if he didn’t draw the line now they could be stuck with a slacker lay-about months from now, when every hand was desperately needed, and more.When a man could sleep standing up from exhaustion, and barely spare a minute to eat.

Calving and branding and the great round-up for market all took their toll on a man, and anyone who couldn’t handle it had best ship out quick.

Starsky shoved his two biscuits in his shirt pocket, and dragged himself from his chair.Hutch checked up on him later, when he was digging post holes, wearily but steadily.He’d stripped both shirts off, sheeted with sweat, and he paused only to wipe the sweat from his brow.Then he got back to work with a weary, single-minded doggedness.

Hutch nodded, and clicked his tongue at Dorothy, his sweet-tempered, plain-brown-wrapper horse.She didn’t have even a spot of white on her grayish brown hide to make her looks more interesting, but he loved her dearly.She turned obediently, following his direction, and headed out to the south pasture so he could check on some more steers.

That night Starsky didn’t show up for dinner.Hutch found him, lying on the bottom bunk, wrapped in his thin sheet and blanket, fighting off the shivers, his gaze blank and faraway.

“Starsky.What’s the matter?”Hutch leaned over and laid the back of his work-roughened hand against the other man’s forehead.It was burning up.He drew back, and regarded Starsky with a frown, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops.Looked like the new guy was sick after all.

Great.

He sighed, and set to work, building up a fire in the rarely-used woodstove, fetching a cold cloth for Starsky’s forehead, and telling Gunderson to make up a batch of chicken soup.

By the time dawn broke the next morning, Hutch had been up all night, weary to the bone with checking on and tending the pathetic, hacking, shivering man who wasn’t even in his right mind.Starsky rarely spoke, and when he did, it was to call the names of people Hutch hadn’t heard of; people who context and similar experience allowed were dead comrades from the war.Especially when he thrashed around and yelled in his hoarse, croaking voice, “It’s a bomb, a bomb!”

Hutch coaxed some more chicken soup and water into Starsky just before dawn, checked the fire, refreshed the cold cloth on Starsky’s forehead, adjusted his blanket, and then left to get to work.

He checked on the ex-soldier every few hours.He’d have done as much for anyone, for any dog, even.But it made the day wearier, longer, and by the end he was bone tired.

_ Just a few hours.Just let me sleep a few hours, _ he silently begged that evening.But he knew this was his penance, for kicking the new guy out the other day, and for accidentally being too hard on him. _He didn’t tell me he was really getting sick.He could’ve told me._

But Hutch knew better.A new guy hadn’t earned any credit to be sick, no matter how sick he actually was.

Hutch rubbed Starsky’s chest with lineament, firm strokes of the horse ointment that could cure a man just as well, if he could stand the smell.He put a pot of water on to boil on the stove when Starsky’s breath began to rattle in his throat, and his breathing became labored wheezes.And then his breaths grew fewer, farther apart, even more labored.Hutch sat up with him half the night, holding Starsky propped in his arms, upright so he could breathe, rubbing that chest, encouraging each breath.

When he had the energy to move, Starsky thrashed from side to side, a strange, squeaky whimpering coming from his tight throat.His eyes rarely cracked more than slits, yet it was obvious he wasn’t seeing the quiet tack room, but someplace worse.

Hutch held him still, soothed him by rubbing his arms and chest, encouraged him to breathe, and kept trying to make him drink some water or soup.

By dawn, Starsky wasn’t swallowing any liquids.His lips were dry and cracked, and he was long lost to the ravings of sickness, without the voice to indulge in them.He lay limp and sweated in Hutch’s arms, each breath like a dry death rattle.

Hutch hadn’t seen someone sicken this quickly or this thoroughly in a long time—not since the war, and the great influenza plague.He halfway expected each breath to be Starsky’s last.He realized he was holding his breath, sometimes, to see if Starsky would take another—and told himself severely to knock it off.There was no need to get sentimental.

But he was sentimental.

Too many people had died.Starsky wasn’t a friend—Hutch didn’t make any friends, because then you couldn’t lose any.He’d learned that the hard way, from the war, from being a pilot.But—Starsky was a soldier, and somehow his dying meant another supremacy of death, and war.And it wasn’t going to happen on Hutch’s watch.Not one more death.

He shushed Starsky, and rubbed his arms, kept holding him up to breathe, and forced water down his throat, rubbing his neck when Starsky refused to swallow, until he gave in, and did.

Gunderson came to check on Hutch when he didn’t show up for breakfast, and found him like that, keeping the curly-haired soldier alive.Gunderson didn’t say anything, just frowned, his eyes discouraged at the mere sight.But he turned away and said, “I’ll get some of my lung tea.”

When he returned with it, Hutch fed that to Starsky in the same way.The soldier was too weak to fight him now, and he became almost obedient as the last of his strength left his body, and the worst of the nightmares receded (finally!) with his fever.His breathing still wheezed like a death rattle, but he drank the tea when Hutch told him to, and didn’t struggle.

Hutch couldn’t leave the soldier that day.He told Gunderson to tell the boss to get someone else to handle his chores.It would only be one day, he said.Then they’d know if the soldier was going to live or die.

He lived.One moment Hutch was talking to someone who simply wasn’t there, who was just an empty husk of a drowning man, fighting for each breath.Then he was there again.It was as simple, and as magical, as that.

Hutch had propped him up in bed with a multitude of pillows, and some heavy grain sacks filled with buckwheat.He went to the stove to tend the fire, and when he turned back to check on the soldier, he realized eyes were watching him—alive eyes, moved almost past comprehension by exhaustion, but alive.Aware.Those blue eyes watched him tend the fire, as if trying to place him, but not caring terribly much whether or not they succeeded.

Shortly after that, Starsky finally fell into a real sleep, a restful sleep.His breath still rattled with each lungful of air, but he slept.Hutch slept, too, unimpeded now by that noise, which had begun to take on the sound of a background hum, barely noticeable, except when it stopped.Then he jerked awake, and swung himself down from the bunk. 

Starsky was sitting up, trying to get out of bed on shaky legs, weak as a lamb’s.

“What are you doing?Get back in there.”

“Hafta pee,” Starsky croaked in a small, hoarse voice.A cough rattled his chest, and he paused, his whole body shaking.It left him weary and drained.He lay back, panting, looking helplessly up at Hutch.

“I’ll get you the pot.Stay there!”Hutch spoke more sharply than he meant to, as he scrambled for the chamber pot.

He made Starsky drink some more tea right after he finished, and then lie back and stay quiet, and go to sleep.

“You can talk tomorrow if you have something to say.Go to sleep.”

Starsky’s eyes followed him wistfully, to the stove and back, while Hutch checked on the fire.He seemed to want to say something, or ask something, but Hutch didn’t relent.

He did, however, sit on the edge of Starsky’s bed, and stroke his forehead with the back of his hand.“Sleep.We almost lost you there, buddy.Just get some more sleep, and you’ll feel better soon.”Starsky’s eyelids flickered, and closed.

Hutch got up early the next morning, bone-weary but feeling accomplished.He was ready and glad to leave the suffocating, cramped, warm room that smelled of horse lineament and illness.He gave himself a good dunking at the pump to wash off any of the illness that lingered on him.The shock of cold told him he was alive.He dried off and put on fresh things, then went to check in with his boss before the day started.

“Is Starky going to live?”

“I believe so, yes.”Hutch gritted his jaw muscles to repress a yawn.“What do you want me working on today?”

“Not wasting your time on a brand new employee who’s worth no more alive to us than dead,” grumped Ogilvy.

Hutch blinked.

“Go check on the cows, and see how far along they are.”

“Yes sir.”Hutch turned, tall and straight in his crisp jeans and clean flannel shirt, his sturdy boots and hat.But inwardly he reeled from that remark.Worthless?Starsky?Was that how this economy made people view one another?Starsky was a burden for a few days, so he was worth no more alive than dead?

The thought came back to haunt him all through that long, backbreaking day.He fell asleep twice in the saddle, but Dorothy, being the superb horse she was, simply stopped patiently and cropped grass until he woke up and again directed her which route to take.

He checked on Starsky several times during the day, each time to find him looking stronger and more alive.As quickly as he had nearly died, he was beginning to recover.His eyes watched Hutch, bright and sparrow-like, turning, watching his every step, studying his face.

It reminded Hutch uncomfortably of Rover’s stare.Rover, an incompliant, ugly hellion of a dog from his grandfather’s farm, had once gotten into a terrible dogfight and nearly died from his wounds.Grandfather had wanted to shoot him, put his miserable hide out of pain, but Hutch had begged, tears in his eyes, for a chance to save the dog.

And he had.He’d sat up nights, tending the wounds, trying to get the dog to drink water, refusing to let it crawl away and die, holding it and spilling his young tears over its life.

And the dog had lived.After that, it had been a changed dog.If anything, it was meaner yet towards other dogs, distrusting even the sweetest, gentlest mutt around.Rover still listened to no one—except Hutch.Sometimes he looked at Hutch as if he would never understand him, but loved him anyway, and knew Hutch was right, no matter what he did.Rover became the most loyal dog you would wish for.He’d followed Hutch around like a puppy, and look at Hutch as ifhe’d become the most important person ever.

Starsky’s gaze now reminded Hutch uncomfortably of Rover’s.It made him uneasy.He didn’t need another Rover in his life.

The dog had died when Hutch was thirteen, and Hutch had been inconsolable.No one had understood why he cried over such a disreputable, mangy, ill-looking, ill-smelling mutt.His father had even caned him for being a crybaby.But that dog’s death had been his first real heartbreak.

He’d experienced enough heartbreak by this point in his life that he never wanted another.And if that meant never getting that close to anyone or anything again, then so be it.Dorothy, of course, had somehow managed to nose her way into his heart.He tried not to think about the fact that she could, and someday would, die—or how he would ever handle it.

Now Starsky was watching him.Just…watching him.With Rover eyes.

“What are you staring at?” snapped Hutch.

Starsky’s eyes gave one, slow, surprised blink.

Instantly contrite, Hutch sat on the edge of his bed.“Are you all right?” He spoke more gently, and laid his hand against Starsky’s forehead.Starsky relaxed again at his touch, and nodded.

“Drink some tea.”Hutch held it for him.“Soup next time.Think you’ll be up for it?”Again, the nod.“All right, go to sleep.”He stroked a hand back over the forehead and curls, and Starsky’s eyelids grew heavy.

Chapter 3

“I don’t get sick very often.”It was the next day, and Starsky was talking.His voice was weak and hoarse, but he spoke slowly and in a low voice, and kept talking.

He’d asked Hutch to sit down on the bed, so he could talk to him.And then he’d waited.Hutch had eventually quit puttering around with sickbed things and complied.

“Last time I got sick was in th’ army.They took me out of the trenches an’ I lay in a hospital bed for two weeks.They didn’t know if I was gonna live or die.I thought maybe I was gonna die, and that was fine with me.But then I thought about how this would kill my mom—I’m her only son.My little brother, Nicky, got polio when we were little an’ he died.And I thought maybe my buddies in the trenches still needed me, too.”He gave an infinitesimal shrug.“So I lived.”

He looked at Hutch, as if trying to understand.“But there was nothing to live for this time.Nobody needed me.My buddies are either okay or they’re not.And Mom died last spring.All I could think of was, it was finally my time, an’ I could let go.But you kept pulling me back.”He watched Hutch, with fathomless depths of blue, the question still lingering there.“Why?”

“You needed somebody to look after you,” said Hutch, avoiding those eyes.“I was just doing my job.”

Starsky snorted, gently.“Yeah.Your job is tending sick people?Well, why ever you did it, thank you, Hutch.”He paused, blinking.“You saved my life, and I don’t even know your first name.”

“Does it matter?” said Hutch, trying to put an end to this odd and unnerving conversation.

Starsky’s mouth twitched up in a tiny smile.“What, am I supposed to just say ‘Thank you, Hutch?’It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“It’s enough.”Hutch reached down and patted Starsky’s knee through his blanket.Then he left the room, left those eyes that were still staring after him, trying to understand.

He paused outside the door, frowned, disgusted with himself, and stuck his head back in.“It’s Ken.”

“Oh.”Starsky, lying quietly in bed, seemed to digest this.“I like ‘Hutch’ better.”

“Me too.”Hutch started to close the door again.

“And I’m Dave.David,” said Starsky.

Hutch gave him a slow nod.“Pleased to meet you.”

#

“It’s been a week,” said Ogilvy.“Either he starts working, or he’s out of here.He’s been coddled enough.And don’t think for one minute he’s getting a dime for the days he was sick.”

Hutch nodded slightly, grimly. _Looks like I’ll be doing some extra chores…_

Starsky was well enough to come outside and sit in the sun, wrapped up in a blanket, but he wasn’t ready for hard labor yet.

Later that day, Hutch stood in the stable, sleeves rolled up, shoveling manure.

“Let me help.”

Hutch looked up to see the wildly-curly-haired Starsky leaning against a wall, watching.Starsky was thin but lively-eyed, wrapped in Hutch’s winter coat.It was too big for him, and his eyes seemed two sizes too big for his thin face.

“I c’n do it.”

Hutch stared at him a moment, then handed him the shovel.“Take a shovelful.See how you do.”

“One?Tsh!”Starsky dug in with a will.He came up with a surprisingly small scoop; his hands shook as he transferred it out.“Do better nex’ time.”Panting, he dug at the pile again.

Hutch stood back and let him go at it for three more weak, shaky shovelfuls.He gave him a pat on the back.“All right, kiddo.That’s plenty.”

“I can do more, Hutch.”But he was panting hard.

“I know.”Hutch pried the shovel from his hand.“Go rest now.I’m teaching you to ride later.You want to save up strength for that.”

“I can ride.I rode when I was a kid.My uncle hadda horse…”

“I’m sure he did.I’m going to teach you to ride for real.”

#

Starsky wasn’t up for it that day, though.

The next day, he balanced shakily on the back of Dorothy, who walked slowly, smoothly, obediently in a circle around Hutch.He needed no rope; she listened to his verbal commands.

“Keep your arms crossed,” said Hutch, when he saw Starsky falter.“Keep your back straight.”

“Feel like I’m gonna fall.”

“You’re not.She’s a great horse.Wouldn’t drop a sack of potatoes or a baby.You just sit straight and you can’t fall.Squeeze harder with your knees if you feel yourself slipping.”

Starsky gave a shaky laugh.“Great.So if I fall, I’m a worse rider than a baby in a sack of potatoes?”

“A baby or a sack of potatoes,” corrected Hutch.

Starsky snorted.“Now I know you’re lying!No horse is that…whoa!”He was starting to slip sideways.The horse ignored him; she listened to Hutch.

“Grip with your knees,” said Hutch patiently.Dorothy continued her slow, steady pace.She cast Hutch a glance, looking to him for her commands, tolerating the dead weight on her back, but not enjoying it.

_ Sorry, girl.He’s got to learn with a good horse. _

Jimmy Bean stopped by to watch.He took off his hat and whistled low, scratched his head.“Well I’ll be a plum tuckered possum!Yore lettin’ somebody else ride yore horse?!”

“That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it?”Hutch kept his eye on Dorothy and Starsky, watching their progress with approval.He gave another click of his tongue and Dorothy moved a step faster.Starsky wobbled on her back, and went a shade paler.He crossed his arms extra hard, and Hutch could see his brow furrow with the effort of gripping with his knees.

Hutch smiled a little. _All right.Good job, both of you._ “Whoa, girl.”He walked up to her. She nosed gratefully into his upheld hand and nickered to him.He rubbed her nose.“Good girl.My good girl.”He rubbed her neck.“Here ya go.”He dug some sugar cubes out of his pocket.He liked his coffee black, anyway.

“Hutch?” came the pitiful, slightly nervous voice from the horse’s back.“Help me down?”

Hutch snorted.Jimmy Bean was still watching (the gawking hayseed!), and Hutch had half a mind to say, “Help yourself down!”Instead, he walked around the side, slid an arm up and helped Starsky.He felt the trembling along Starsky’s muscles, and saw the way he stumbled on his first step.Apparently he’d been at this a little too long.Trust Starsky never to tell him!

Hutch let his hand rest in the small of Starsky’s back for a moment.“You all right?”(Starsky nodded.)“Okay.Go on inside and lay down for now.”

Starsky managed it, walking slowly, barely wobbling at all.Hutch watched him, not wanting to baby him, not wanting to let him fall on his face in the dirt, either.

#

Starsky’s hacking cough woke Hutch in the middle of the night.He stared worriedly at the ceiling, his hands behind his back.

The coughing continued.

Glaring, Hutch swung himself out of bed, grabbed the lineament off the dresser, and flung it into Starsky’s hands.Starsky jumped a little and turned his face aside as if to avoid a blow.

“Here.Rub it on your chest.Big baby.Think you could at least try to look after yourself!”

“Hutch,” complained Starsky, breathless after another cough.“I’ve been!Every night!”

“Then rub it twice a day—damn it.Do I have to spell everything out?Least you could do is try to take care of yourself!”

“Don’t have to act like that, Hutch. I know you saved my life—”

“Yes, and I don’t want to have to do it again!Take care of yourself!”

“I’ve been!What am I s’posed to do more than—”Another round of coughing shook his chest, left him panting.

Hutch stood staring down at him, choked up and angry.

“Hutch.It hurts.”

“All right.Shh.I know it does.”Hutch sank beside him on the bed, slid an arm around him and stroked the curly head.“I’ll make you some tea, huh?Maybe that’ll help.”

#

Hutch set him on a regiment of Gunderson’s special teas, hounded Starsky mercilessly about keeping his chest warm and not overexerting himself, and personally saw to the rubbing of lineament two and sometimes three times a day.

Starsky lay on his bed, shirtless in the hot room. (Hutch always stoked the fire to keep him from catching chill.)Starsky watched sleepily, trustingly as Hutch’s big hand rubbed and rubbed, pushing the ointment into his chest.Then Hutch made him put his shirt back on right away, and just lie there in the room, breathing warm, wet air for a half hour, and if that wasn’t enough to put him to sleep, he could get up and go about some light chores.

And finally, at last, Starsky’s recovery proceeded apace.

The last of his cough died and he regained strength.He even got the bounce back in his steps.Hutch shielded him from heavy labor, but he let him tackle cleaning out the stalls, currying horses, and helping Gunderson in the kitchen—mostly peeling potatoes and serving food.

He  practiced riding and roping every day.Starsky would sit in the yard, and repeatedly toss a lariat at a hitching post.At first, when his strength and coordination were still off, he’d wear a concentrating, frustrated expression.Hutch walked up to him several times, correcting his posture, fixing his lariat, standing next to him while he tried again.

Hutch said little.Starsky’s frustration was palpable.

“Why’d they hire me, Hutch?If I’m so bad at all of this?” he said plaintively once.

Hutch swallowed.“You were the first guy off the train.Ogilvy got tired of interviewing desperate and dreadful laborers.He said he’d hire the first man off the train, and fire him if he didn’t work out.”

Starsky digested this.Hutch gnawed his lip, worrying about the response.

“Wow, I guess it’s good I’m fast on my feet!”Starsky grinned.

#

“Hutch.Hutch!”

Hutch jumped out of the top bunk and bent over Starsky.“Hey.Wake up.”He gripped Starsky’s arm and shook it.

“Hutch.”Panting, Starsky blinked up at him, wakening.

Hutch sat on the edge of his bed.“What’s the matter?What’s wrong, huh?”He kept hold of Starsky’s arm.

“Gas attack,” said Starsky, in a strangled voice.“You didn’t have your mask on.”He reached up, gripped Hutch’s arm in return, as if to make sure he was really there.

“Now I’m with you in the trenches?I sure get around, don’t I?”Hutch smiled.He decided not to mention his own occasional bad dream, that Starsky was one of his squad, forever in danger of being shot down.The plane was diving and the black streak of smoke followed it down, down…

“Guess so.”Starsky looked up at him.“Don’t die, Hutch.Okay?”

“You either, Starsk.”

#

Hutch drew his friend aside one evening before bedtime.“You need a haircut, buddy.”He brought a hand up to ruffle Starsky’s unruly mane.His hair was just getting too wild.Unlike straight-haired guys, who could simply pull it back in a ponytail if they didn’t want to mess with cutting it, his hair seemed to explode.And it got dirty quickly, and made him look highly un-presentable.For a man who kept himself neatly shaven and washed, he was letting his hair get out of control.

“Hm?”Starsky looked up at him, turning under his touch, staring up at him trustingly.

Hutch swallowed. _Don’t look at me like that.Don’t trust me so much…_

“Come on.Get yourself a chair.I’ll get a pair of scissors.”He gave Starsky a swat—a hard one.

“Ow.”Starsky jumped away, and glared at him.“No hitting!”

“Get the chair and I won’t have to.Go on!”

Starsky frowned at him, but obeyed.In a few moments, he was sitting on a chair in their room, a sheet wrapped around him, and Hutch stood behind him, tugging lightly on one curl at a time, and cutting several inches off.

He paused to ruffle the hair up, so it would be all evenly bouncy.“You washed it recently, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, under the pump.”He was relaxing under Hutch’s hands.

Hutch struggled to cut the unruly hair, pausing to ruffle it up again every few minutes. _Gotta get it even…_ Starsky leaned back into the touch, his posture loosening and relaxing.

“Mm.”

“Mm?” enquired Hutch.

“Feels good.Rubbin’ my head.”

“Yeah, well don’t go to sleep yet.Sit up straight, okay?”

“Mmmm…” said Starsky sleepily.

Hutch tugged a little harder on the next curl, and Starsky jerked.

“Stay awake.”

“Don’t pull my hair!”

“How ‘bout your ear?”He took Starsky’s right ear between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a little tweak.

“You’re manhandling me, Hutch!Stop it!”Starsky turned around and punched at his side.

Hutch danced back, away from the blow.“Watch it, pal.I’ve got scissors.”

“Oh, that a threat?Now you’re threatening me?”Starsky squinted up at him, one eye further closed than the other, momentarily fierce-looking.

In spite of himself, Hutch found his face relaxing into a grin. _Yeah, this is stupid.I don’t need to push him away by being harsh…_

“Okay, no more tweaking.”He tugged on another curl, more gently, and Starsky turned around, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

“Hutch.Why do you get mean sometimes?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Dunno,” said Hutch quietly.He paused, one hand on Starsky’s head, leaned down and pressed his face against the sweaty, bouncy curls.“Sorry, Starsk.”

“Okay.Okay, Hutch.”Starsky turned around and patted him awkwardly.“Pinch me if you want. S’okay.I don’t mind.”

Ch 4

“Tell me ‘bout flyin’, Hutch.”Starsky lay on his stomach, kicking his feet in the air in the soft meadow grass, chewing a stem.The broken down old horse without a name that he’d ridden cropped grass nearby.

Hutch (and ostensibly Starsky) had ridden out to check the far fences.They’d stopped for lunch here. Hutch lay on his back, hands crossed behind his head, staring at the fluffy white clouds.Dorothy grazed nearby.

“It was amazing, Starsk.It was like—like I was all alone in a beautiful blue world.Striding among the clouds.The most beautiful thing you can imagine.I can’t do it justice.It was…real special.”

He swallowed.“But then we took this beautiful thing, and turned it into another way to kill each other.”He blinked several times.“The clouds were…and the earth.You can see so far, all the farms look so peaceful and small down below.Like a big quilt, spread with toys, and it’s all clean and beautiful and…so…uh…I can’t even describe it.”

Starsky sighed, and flopped over as well to stare at the clouds.“Wish I coulda seen it.You know, the big sky instead of the muddy trenches.I usta see the planes go overhead sometimes, Hutch.Ours an’ theirs.We’d cheer for ours and boo for theirs.I wonder if one of ‘em was yours?”

“You ever stationed near Algiers?See one of our planes with a green cross on it, and blue flaps?”Hutch discarded his own blade of grass and plucked another.

“Didn’t get that close.I couldn’t see.”He closed his eyes though, as if trying to remember, or at least imagine it.He shook his head.“Can’t, Hutch.Don’t think I saw it.”

“You weren’t even near there, were you?”

“I can pretend I was.”

Hutch laughed, reached across, and socked him in the shoulder.Starsky rolled away from the hit, grinning.

“Come on.Work to do.”Hutch groaned, and got to his feet.

“I’d still like to fly, just once.”Starsky scrambled to his feet, too.

#

“What are you doin’, hanging around with that Jew?”Jimmy Bean switched the straw from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Jew?”Hutch cast him a quick look, and then frowned.Jimmy was leaning on his shovel, letting Hutch do all the work.They were supposed to be digging post holes.He motioned for Jimmy to dig in, as well.

“Yeah.Starsky.”Jimmy dug his shovel in and then paused again, shifting his straw.“The Jew.He ain’t nobody.”

Hutch blinked.“Sure he is.”Starsky…nobody?Starsky was the only person in the world who mattered to Hutch most of the time.

“So you knew he was Jewish?”

“Nah.”Hutch stomped on his shovel to force it down further into the tough-packed earth.“Doesn’t matter.Why would it?”

“Don’t think we’ve got any more of them around here.”Jimmy’s quiet voice had turned to an arrogant drawl.“Must be some reason.”

Hutch stopped digging.He turned to stare at Jimmy Bean with his coldest stare.“What do you mean by that?”

Jimmy shrugged.“Nothin’. _I_ don’t mean nothin’ by that.”He stressed the word ‘I.’

“Then who does?” snapped Hutch, his calloused hands tightening on the shovel’s handle.

Jimmy’s eyes shifted uncomfortably from meeting Hutch’s gaze.“Some of the guys been talkin’…”

“Well you just tell them to shut up.Anybody messes with Starsky, they’re messing with me—and I don’t play nice.Got it?”

He stared at Jimmy till the other nodded and shifted his gaze uncomfortably.

“Hell, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Hutch.You know that.Just some of the guys…”

“Yeah, well the guys can go…”

Did they really want to mess with Starsky?Scare him off—or lynch him?The terrifying possibilities ran through Hutch’s brain.He still had his service revolver, and he kept plenty of ammunition.He’d have to ask Starsky if he had one.They couldn’t get caught unprepared…

His heart pounded hard for a moment, and he could hardly see straight.He focused on the hole to get control of himself.He wasn’t going to lose Starsky, no sir.

After that, he slept with their door locked, and his loaded revolver beside his pillow.He padded to the door to make sure it was locked each night.

“Hutch.”One night, Starsky lay on his back, hands crossed behind his head.“Whatcha worryin’ about?”He suppressed a yawn.“You’ve been on edge these last couple of days.Want to tell me what about?”

Hutch sighed, and his shoulders sagged.Starsky was going to find out someday...

“They’re…some of the men…were…were talking about…about…”He ran a hand back through his hair.He couldn’t even say it. 

“You mean tryin’ to scare me off because I’m Jewish?”Starsky smiled a little at the gaping expression Hutch turned on him.Starsky nodded.“Yeah.I know ‘bout that.Don’t worry about it, Hutch.I ain’t so helpless as you think, and they’re just blowing off steam.I’ve been in places where it’s dangerous to be Jewish—this ain’t one of ‘em, not in comparison.I’ll knock a few heads together if I have to, but it ain’t even serious enough for that.”He rolled onto his side and patted the side of the bed.“You know what they’re really upset about?” 

Obediently, Hutch came and sat down on the edge.“What?”

“I’m your friend.”He smiled up at Hutch, his eyes squinting shut a little, sleepily.His jaw tightened with another suppressed yawn.

“Huh?”Hutch blinked.

“Sure, Hutch.”He knocked his knuckles lightly against Hutch’s arm.“You’re my pal.You’re not nobody else’s pal.”

Hutch frowned.“Starsk, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.Who wouldn’t want you for a pal?But you only let me in.So…” He shrugged.“…people don’t like me for it.But I can handle that.”He yawned now, too widely to stop or even cover up.“Uhh.G’night, Hutch…”

“G’night, pal,” Hutch said softly, and pulled the covers over his friend again.He climbed quietly up into his bed, and then looked at his gun for a moment.It really could fall and go off or something if he kept it up here.He climbed down quietly and put it away.

Did people really envy his and Starsky’s friendship?The two of them had gotten quite close in a short time, and it was true that Hutch had never really warmed up to anyone else, at least not enough to consider them friends.

He knew the answer.Starsky was right.Although why anyone would want to be his friend, he still couldn’t figure out.He closed his eyes, and joined his friend in sleep, worries forgotten…

#

“Hutch.Hey, Hutch.”Starsky hefted the hay bale and stacked it.

Hutch stopped to watch him carefully, but Starsky looked fine; he could handle most chores now.

“What is it?”

“You’ve worked here three years, right?And the guys say you never spend a penny, ‘cept maybe to buy somethin’ for work, like new pants, but only if you’re desperate for ‘em.”He glanced at Hutch, as if for confirmation. 

“That’s what they say, is it?”Hutch raised his eyebrows, amused at the thought of everyone talking about him, and Starsky getting his information (or more likely misinformation) second-hand instead of just asking Hutch about himself.

_ Thought we were friends, huh?You’ve still got to go around asking the neighbors about me, huh? _

“Well, and you were a good—a great pilot, right?I mean, that’s what they say.”Again, the glance, rather hesitant, as if Starsky were unsure whether he was treading on dangerous ground, or crossing any boundaries.

“I was a great pilot.”Hutch held back his amusement the best he could, fighting to keep back a laugh.

“Right.Well, how come you haven’t cut your ties here, and gone and bought yourself an old used plane?You could start you own—well, plane-riding business, or become a barnstormer and do fancy flying tricks, maybe join one of them flying circuses.”He looked at Hutch expectantly.

Hutch loved that look.It was as if Starsky was still a little boy in some ways, and there was always something that could excite him, something new and intriguing and wonderful in the world to discover.

Hutch stacked another bale.“Okay, Starsk.Say I went off and became a barnstormer.Well, what would I do with you, huh?”

He meant it as a joke, but Starsky answered seriously, and his smile lit up.

“You could take me with you!I’d learn to wingwalk.Make a great act.”He smiled and raised his eyebrows.

Hutch stared at him.Then he couldn’t help it, he laughed.“Starsk, you’re scared of heights!How are you going to become a wingwalker?”

Starsky drew back, his happy expression turning into an offended blink.“I could learn!”

“Starsky…”Hutch moved to stand beside him, and clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder.“Think of it.Imagine this…standing on a thin strip of wood, nothing but air beneath you for hundreds, and hundreds, and hundreds of feet.”

Starsky shuddered. 

“Yeah.That’s what I thought.And then there’s the fact the plane is moving—going pretty fast—and of course the winds.Crosswinds can be pretty strong up there, Starsk.Lots of gusts.”

“Okay!I get it!”Starsky frowned, and balled his hands into fists. “I’ve got to conquer my fear of heights first.”

Hutch reached for another bale, shaking his head, and trying very hard not to laugh at the determined expression on his friend’s face.“You don’t get over something like that, Starsky.Things get worse, not better.I suppose you’re going to get over your nightmares about the war, too, huh?”

“I might.You don’t know.”Starsky frowned and reached for another bale, the muscles rippling on his thin chest, visible even though his shirt.

“You need a new shirt, buddy.It’s getting too tight.”Hutch nodded at the thin flannel shirt.Starsky was by no means gaining a lot of weight, but he had put on a few pounds of muscle, between the hard work and as much food as he wanted.It seemed apparent to Hutch that Starsky had a naturally stocky build; he was glad to see him beginning to fill out.

“Do not,” said Starsky, frowning at him, his caterpillar eyebrows pulling down.He reached with a quick, jerky movement for another bale.There was a loud ripping sound.“Aw, hell.”He looked down in consternation at his shirt, and fingered the new hole at his underarm.

Hutch bit his lip to keep from laughing.

#

“Don’t complain.This is a good use of your money and you know it.”Hutch thrust the pair of brand new flannel shirts into Starsky’s hands and pointed to the back room.“Now try them on.”

“Aw, Hutch!How am I s’pposed to save up money for our plane?”Starsky retreated to the changing room, carrying the shirts.

“You still on about that?”

“Yeah I’m still on about that!” called Starsky, raising his voice to be heard from the back room.“It’s a great plan an’ you know—” There was a ripping sound from the back room.Silence.“Um, maybe I should get some new jeans, too.”

Hutch leaned against the wall, pressing a fist to his mouth, shaking with suppressed laughter. 

“Hutch?” said Starsky plaintively.“You wanna get me a pair?I kinda need ‘em… now.”

Hutch pulled himself together, cleared his throat and wiped the tears from his eyes.“Yeah, I’ll—get right on that, Starsk.”

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” came Starsky’s accusative voice.

“No,” lied Hutch.He checked through the neatly folded stacks of pants, and pulled out one he hoped was Starsky’s size—and then to be on the safe side, the two next-closest sizes as well.“Here.”He handed them around the partition.“Try these on.And don’t wear them so tight next time.”

“I like ‘em tight,” came Starsky’s mutinous reply.

He emerged from the fitting room a few minutes later.“How do I look?”He spread his arms and turned around.Hutch eyed him, weighing.

The red flannel shirt was far too big.The tails trailed low and the arms hung on him like he was a kid wearing a man’s shirt.The jeans, what Hutch could see of them, hugged far too tight.

“Go.Back in there.”Hutch pointed.“Next size bigger jeans and two sizes smaller shirt.”

“Aw, Hutch!” complained Starsky, for no good reason that Hutch could see, and retreated to try again.

Ch 5 

Hutch stopped, partway towards the barn.Starsky’s arms were held out to his side, and he was walking, balancing on the top of the wooden fence surrounding the vegetable plot.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said Hutch.

“Balancing, Hutch.I’m gettin’ used to heights, and balancing.”

“Starsky…”Hutch shook his head, suppressing a sigh.

“What?I’m getting’ good.”He risked a glance back at Hutch—and lost his balance, falling off into the grass.“Ow.”He sat up, rubbing his backside and grimacing.“Shouldn’t distract me, Hutch.”

“Yeah.Maybe you should give that up now, buddy.It takes a lot more than walking on top of a fence to be a wingwalker.It’s not even that high.”

Starsky frowned at him.“I’ll think of somethin’.”

Hutch just shook his head, and continued on towards the barn.

Two days later, he entered the barn, when he heard a small, scratching sound coming from the direction of the ceiling.Hutch thought of the rat that had walked across a roof beam last year—until Leonard had thrown a rock and knocked it down.

Leonard and his remarkable aim were gone now—and Starsky was the rat.

When Hutch looked up, his heart stilled for several terrible seconds.There was his curly-haired buddy, balancing, concentrating, putting one foot in front of another.He held a broom to balance himself, and took small steps, watching where he put his feet very carefully.He didn’t seem to notice Hutch below, and, remembering his spill the other day, Hutch could only hope he wouldn’t—and wouldn’t get distracted by anything else, either.

Hutch eased back, trying to stay out of sight range, in the shadows.His heart yammered, as scenarios ran through his head.Starsky could fall, and die.Starsky could fall, break a leg or hurt himself some other way and, considering the quality of medical care they got out here, still die.

_ Oh please, Starsky.Oh please, please… _

He didn’t dare breathe.Starsky’s wobbly, slow steps took him—it seemed to take forever—from the middle of the beam, to the west wall.He stepped onto the small platform there, and paused, leaning against the wall.He ran a hand across his forehead, and held his broom.He looked at the beam again, and started back towards it.

“Starsk,” said Hutch, stepping forward; the word came out as a croak.

Starsky looked down suddenly, and his tensed face broke into a grin.“Oh, hey, Hutch.See what I’m doing?”He gestured proudly to the beam.

Hutch swallowed.“Uh, yeah, I see.Why don’t you, uh, come on down now, and take a break.”He squeezed his fingernails into his palms painfully hard.

“Oh—okay.”Starsky headed carefully down the ladder, carrying the broom awkwardly.He jumped down the last three rungs, leaned the broom against the wall, and brushed himself off.

Hutch stood drained, silent, knowing he had to say something, not wanting to yell or punch Starsky, and not wanting to ignore his dangerous behavior, either.

“Um, Starsk…”

“Yeah?”Starsky glanced up at him.

“Don’t do that, okay?”

“Hm?Why not, Hutch?You said I hadda practice high places—”

“As I recall, it was never my idea for you to practice balancing at all.Don’t do that.You hear me?You could be killed.It’s not worth a little practice.”Then he added, “Please.”

Starsky stared at him, blinked once.Hutch never said ‘please.’“Okay, Hutch,” he said, slowly.“If you don’t want me to.But I need to practice…”

“No.Don’t practice.If you ever have a chance—I’ll work out some safer way you can practice.”He slid a hand along Starsky’s side. _Safer than that, anyway._

Starsky looked at him a moment, frowning a little.Then he nodded.“Okay, Hutch.You’re the expert.”

#

One day he saw Starsky leaving the yard with a tough swagger in his steps, and a bloodied lip and mussed, dusty, and torn clothes.

He blinked around.Everyone in sight was minding their own business, keeping their heads down so to speak.

Hutch looked around helplessly, and then hurried after Starsky.He caught up to him in the stable, and plucked his elbow gently.

“Starsk.You all right?”

“Hm?”Starsky turned to him, starting to unbutton his shirt.“Sure.Why?”

“Well, you look like you’ve gotten into a fight,” said Hutch reasonably.“Did something happen?You know, because you’re Jewish?”

Starsky gave him a rather fond, affectionate, and tolerating look, and patted the side of his face.“Don’t worry about it, Hutch.I can take care of myself.”

Hutch blinked at him, not sure what to say.He couldn’t demand Starsky tell him what had happened—but usually, he wouldn’t need to.If he were keeping something secret, especially with that look on his face—

Hutch sat down on the edge of the bunk bed.“Don’t tell me you got into a fight because of me.”

“Blintz,” said Starsky, warning, scolding, and rather exasperated.“Don’t go tryin’ to guess everything.Is that what you did when you were a kid on Christmas—try to guess all your presents ahead?”

“It’s not a present for you to get into a fight—and you know it.”He looked up at Starsky, frowning.He was washing off now, in a hand basin, squeezing out a cloth and running it over himself where he’d gotten dirty or scratched.He didn’t seem to have come out too badly, though.The water was mostly used to clean up dust.His bloody lip wasn’t even very bad.

“I’m murder in a fight,” said Starsky, not answering him.“Better hope you never get on my bad side.”He waggled his eyebrows at Hutch, who couldn’t resist smiling a little at the funny picture that made, like two caterpillars wriggling.

“Okay.You got into a fight about me.And you’re never going to tell me why.”Hutch tried to resign himself to it.It made him feel off-balance, to know there had been something bad enough to get into a fight about, and he didn’t know what it was.

“Some people just said bad things about you, okay?I didn’t put up with it.That’s all.”Starsky turned back to the faded mirror and tried to comb his thick, curly mess of hair into a semblance of neatness.It got wild very quickly, and today looked worse than ever from his fight.

Hutch sighed.“Okay, Starsk.But really, you don’t have to stick up for my honor.I’m quite capable.”

“Blintz, it’s only kind of about you.If I don’t stick up for you when I hear stuff like that, well, I’m not much of a friend, then, am I?” he said reasonably.He turned and gave Hutch a smile.“Now go on—don’t you need to talk to Ogilvy about what you’ve got to do today?”

“Oh.Yeah, that’s right.”He shot up.“I’ll be late.”

#

Winter came, and they bought more clothes for Starsky: a heavy barn coat, a thick turtleneck, and extra socks.

Hutch laughed the first time he saw Starsky gazing in wonder at the new-fallen snow.He stopped to pat Starsky’s back.“You won’t think it’s so wonderful, buddy, when you’ve been working in it for long.Besides, you’ve seen snow before, haven’t you?”

“Sure.Plenty of times.”Starsky bent and scooped up a quick handful of it, began to pack it into a ball, his eyes shining with mischief. “Except it’s usually been dirty, in the city, or in the war.”

Hutch took a step back, raising a finger to point at Starsky warningly.“Starsk, if you…”

He didn’t finish; the snowball hit him in the face.It left him sputtering and spitting—and a moment later, running after the chortling, fleeing Starsky.

#

That winter brought bad things, too.It was nearly spring and the worst of the snows were over—or supposed to be.

But one day, Hutch was riding Dorothy, checking the lines, when a storm blew up—a quick, terrible storm.They tried to ride back home against the storm.Dorothy kept her head down and tried, bless her, but it did little good.Then Hutch got off and led her, trying to shield her face from some from the blast, and holding up an arm to shield his own as well.

After what felt like an age, they drew up to a stand of trees where a few cows huddled miserably.He led her in, and stood against a tree, to wait it out.

Hours later, the storm still raged on.Chilled to his bones, Hutch kept close to his horse, and the cows kept close around them.

By the break of dawn, the storm had lulled to a mild, bone-chilling steady rain, melting the snow that lay on the ground, soaking the man and the cattle thoroughly.The cows snorted unhappily in their winter-thick coats, but Dorothy put her head down and shivered.She and Hutch headed home.Her head stayed down, and her steady steps seemed slower and more difficult than ever before.

_ Please make it home, baby.Just make it home and I’ll take the best care of you… _ He led her slowly, seeking out the easiest ground and the most direct route for her exhausted journey home.

Starsky found them, halfway there.He rode the nameless, broken down horse, and he looked worried.

“Hutch.Ya all right?”He hopped off the horse, and strode forward, put a hand on Hutch’s shoulder and looked into his face.“Hey.You get on this horse.I’ll lead Dorothy.”

Slowly, Hutch hauled himself into the saddle, hanging slightly forward.He held onto the saddle horn.Starsky led both horses, clicking his tongue and talking softly to Dorothy.

“Come on, girl.Not much farther.We’re almost home.What a good horse you are.”

He rubbed her nose encouragingly, and slipped her a sugar cube.He kept glancing up worriedly at Hutch; but the blond appeared half asleep and definitely in no mood to talk.

At the stable, Hutch slid off the back of the horse and began moving towards Dorothy’s stable.

Starsky blocked his way.“No, Hutch.You’ve got to let me do this.You go and dry off, hm?I’ll do just like you taught me.Promise.”He put both hands on Hutch’s chest and stared into his eyes.“You can check on me when you’re dry, before you go to bed.”

Slowly, Hutch nodded, and the tension receded from Starsky’s frame.

Hutch heard him talking softly to Dorothy, as he headed in to change.“Come on, girl.We’ll get you fixed up real good.You’re a good horse, anybody ever tell you that?”

Sometime later, from in the deep well of sleep, Hutch felt the bed shake.A worried face appeared above him—Starsky’s.Starsky saw his eyes open and withdrew the hand that had been reaching to touch his shoulder.

“Hutch.It’s Dorothy.She’s coughing.”His eyebrows drew together with concern, even fear.

Hutch sprang from the bed, bone-weary, half-dead, but never wider awake.“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I did.She just started.”

Hutch worked all his magic.He fought for Dorothy’s life.Starsky stayed silent and watchful by his side, quick-moving and always ready to be an extra pair of hands, to fetch, carry, rub down, help dose, or just crouch or stand silently nearby, watching.

“Hutch,” he ventured to say, quietly, five hours later, when Dorothy’s each breath had become painful, horrible rattles in her throat.“Do you think…it might be kinder…?”

“No!” said Hutch.“No.I won’t give up on her.”He stared at his girl, tears pooling in his eyes.“You hear me, Dorothy?I won’t give up on you.”

She stared at him, dull eyed, loyal and obedient as ever—no matter what he asked of her.

Hutch choked.He turned away.Wondered desperately, horribly, what he could have done differently to save her life.Not go riding?But he’d been ordered to, and he hadn’t sensed a storm.No one had known…

No one had known.

_ Dorothy. _

“I’ll get the gun.”Hutch turned away, his shoulders bowed, his life becoming a tunnel of pain and darkness.

“Wait, Hutch.”Starsky put a hand on his shoulder.“Maybe we can keep tryin’.Maybe some of that tea…”He raised his brows.“Hm?I’ll talk to Gunderson.”

Ch 6

Five more hours later.Tea made no difference, because she couldn’t drink it.She couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t stop coughing.

“She’s not a young horse, Starsk.She wasn’t young when I got her.”He trailed a hand along the side of the shivering beast.“I’m sorry, girl.”He could barely see straight for the tears in his eyes, as he raised the pistol.

He turned to glare at Starsky.“Give us a minute, would you?”

Starsky nodded, and retreated quickly.

A few moments later, a single shot rang out.

Starsky burst back into the stall, his eyes wild.Hutch stood staring down at his beloved, dead horse; he could hardly see straight.

“Give me that, okay buddy?”Starsky stepped forward gingerly and pried the gun gently from his hand .“She knows you love her, Hutch.She died knowing you love her.She tried her best for you.”Starsky laid a hand on his shoulder, and another against his chest.

“I know,” said Hutch miserably.He could hardly talk.Starsky kept his hands on Hutch, patting him, just trying to stay in contact.

“You did the right thing,” said Starsky.He rubbed a circle on Hutch’s chest, almost as if he were rubbing ointment in.It seemed oddly appropriate to Hutch, as if Starsky was trying to fix his broken heart.

But it didn’t matter.Nothing mattered now.

“Hutch…”

“Starsky.”He met the other’s frightened, concerned, compassioned eyes for a moment, willing him to listen, really listen.“Get me out of here.”

“All right.Back to bed...?”

“No.Away.From the ranch.Get me out of here.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.It doesn’t matter.Barnstorming, if you still want to go.”He just said that in the hopes Starsky would listen.He didn’t care, honestly.Anywhere, or nowhere.He just couldn’t stand to spend one more minute on this ranch, where every square inch of land held memories of Dorothy, of their time together.

“All right, Hutch.We’ll go.But first we’ve got to bury…”

“No.”

“Yes, Hutch.”He spoke gently.“They’ll just sell her for glue if we don’t.”

Hutch hesitated.Whirling, horrible, dark fog seemed to overcome his brain; he couldn’t think straight.Couldn’t face doing anything that required thought.But… Dorothy couldn’t be glue.That thought still stabbed his benumbed heart.“You do it.”

“No, Hutch.We’ll both do it.I’m not leaving you alone.Grab a shovel.”

And Starsky made him, too.He made Hutch do a fair amount of the digging, telling him to put his back into it. Hutch attacked the ground with rage, panting, gulping with the silent tears that sometimes tracked down his face.Other times, he dug woodenly, feeling nothing, seeing nothing.He couldn’t look at Dorothy, when Starsky dragged her out, using a couple of big horse blankets and a pair of mules.

He couldn’t say any words before they covered her.He couldn’t throw the first shovel of dirt.He turned away, tears pooling, feeling so dead inside, and yet so pained.

“It’s okay, Hutch.It’s okay.”Starsky paused from shoveling, from covering the poor, dead Dorothy with dirt, to grip his arms, to try to look into his eyes, to hold him.

Hutch let his head rest against Starsky’s shoulder, and wept.But it didn’t change the emptiness inside.

“Change your mind?” asked Starsky on the way back, leading the mules and carrying both shovels.He glanced at Hutch.

“Get me out of here, Starsky.”Hutch’s voice was a hoarse croak.

“You sure you want to leave right away?Don’t want you catching somethin’ too.”

“Starsky.”Hutch gave him a long, intense look.He knew it communicated something of what was going on inside him right now.Only trouble was, he had no idea what that was.

Starsky was the first to look away.“Okay, Hutch.Okay.We’ll quit—right now.”

And they did.

Hutch felt himself drifting away, floating out over the farm, among the clouds, while they stood in front of Ogilvy’s desk.The cold man’s reptilian gaze couldn’t touch him, inside, because there was nothing left there to touch. 

“Hutch.”Starsky, who had been talking, now nudged him, waiting, expecting something.

Hutch turned slowly from him to Ogilvy.“I quit.”

Ogilvy’s return gaze was scornful, mocking.“I’ll give you your pay.Be off the ranch by sundown.”

“We’ll be off in an hour,” said Starsky, coldly.He turned, his strides long and cocky and angry, and tugged on Hutch’s arms.“C’mon, Hutch.We gotta pack.”

Starsky helped him.Starsky kept touching his arm, or resting a hand on his side, or brushing so close they touched, as if he felt the need to keep in constant contact with Hutch, to keep him from slipping away.It irritated Hutch a little, and he pushed Starsky’s hands away.But they kept coming back.

“Let me alone,” he said quietly.

“No, Hutch.”

They rode from the place on the nameless horse—or rather, Hutch rode, and Starsky led the way.Hutch sat, wrapped in his winter coat, shivering a little, thinking thoughtless thoughts.

That night, they slept under the stars, around a fire Starsky built.Hutch watched the stars, and let his mind feel as void and empty as they looked to him.

Starsky made him rub his chest, and drink hot tea, and take two blankets, and he did not get sick.He wanted to.It seemed wrong, to be so healthy, so able to bounce back, when poor Dorothy—

“Hutch.Eat something.”It was the second day, and Hutch hung his head over the bread Starsky had shoved into his hand.He tried to shove it back.

“No.Eat it, Hutch.”Starsky pushed it into his hands harder, glaring at him.Then, more softly, “Please.”He sat down beside Hutch, and put an arm around his shoulders, and leaned against him.“I know you’re hurtin’, Hutch.If you want to talk…”

Hutch shoved the bread into his mouth, and began to chew, just to shut Starsky up.At last, Starsky withdrew.Hutch rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to see those eyes, watching him worriedly.

That night Starsky crawled close, on the side away from the fire, curling next to him to keep his cold side warm.Part of Hutch wanted to shove him away.Part of him wanted to scold Starsky and tell him to get on the other side of the fire where he could stay warm.But mostly, he couldn’t be bothered to say or do anything.So he didn’t.

#

It was the fourth day before he ‘woke up.’

He woke noticing his surroundings for the first time.

And saw Starsky, across the fire—it had been a fairly warm night, he now recalled, and the extra warmth of Starsky’s body had been unnecessary.He could see him, over and around the embers.Starsky’s curly hair was wilder than usual, and he looked tired, drawn even in sleep.Loath to wake him, Hutch continued to look around.He didn’t recognize the countryside.They must have come a long way. 

His eyes lighted upon the horse, and he blinked. _How did we get that horse?_ Although he could now vaguely recall riding it for the past several days, he couldn’t recall any explanation for why.

“Bought him,” explained Starsky, his voice hoarse from sleep.He was watching Hutch—and apparently reading his mind.

He sat up and smiled.“I see you’re back with us.Hi, Hutch.”He stretched his arms over his head, and grunted a little, indulging in a huge yawn, and then giving himself a scratch here and there on his chest.

Hutch looked away, feeling ashamed of himself.“Seems foolish to get so upset about a horse,” he said quietly.He still felt the hurt inside, throbbing, but it no longer consumed him.

“No, Hutch.”Starsky got up and moved to his side, and plunked down beside him in the dirt.“No, it doesn’t.Besides, it wasn’t just about Dorothy.It was—everything, right?Everything you hadn’t gotten upset about and…and everyone you lost in the war, right?”

He should’ve known Starsky would understand, even when he didn’t.

He croaked, “I couldn’t save her, Starsk.”

“No, you couldn’t.You tried your best.She did her best, too.You both fought hard.”A comforting hand rested on his shoulder.“She was gettin’ old, Hutch.She died knowing you loved her.”

“Starsky,” said Hutch, choking, turning around, and reaching out for him—for the only thing he had left anymore.

“Shh.I’ve got you.I’ve got you, buddy.”Warm arms enveloped him, and held him while he cried.

It seemed to last forever—a long, long time.

#

“So,” said Starsky, while Hutch was drinking water, and blowing his nose, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Starsky watched him, but Hutch did not feel particularly ashamed under those eyes—not the way he’d have thought he would.Starsky was too accepting to judge him for crying.And he’d seemed pretty close to tears too, when Hutch was grieving.

“So…” he said.“Do you want to go back to the ranch, now you’re feelin’ a little better?We can do it.I think we can talk Ogilvy back into giving us our jobs back—or you can.You’re good with words.”He stretched out, lying back on the hard brown grass and crossing his hands behind his head.“Whatever you want to do, Hutch.That’s what we’ll do.”

Hutch stared at him a moment. _You really mean that, don’t you?_

He shook his head.“No, Starsk.I meant it about leaving.It’s time to start fresh.”He lay down beside Starsky, and stared at the sky, as well.It no longer seemed empty.In fact, it kind of… seemed full of hope.He still missed Dorothy, but he could bear it now.It helped knowing he and Starsky would face tomorrow together, whatever it held.

He smiled at Starsky.A smile that felt shaky, and unused, but real.“Besides, we’ve still got to let you see the sky from up close.”

Starsky turned to quirk a smile at him.“Long as you’re the pilot, Hutch.And I think I can handle wingwalking now.Really.I’ve been practicin’ more on fence posts—but not up high, like you said.I kept my promise.I’m gettin’ good, too, Hutch.I’m gettin’ there.”He smiled.

Hutch smiled back.“You’ve always been good.”He reached a hand over and ruffled Starsky’s hair, gently.“What would I do without you, huh?”

Starsky grinned and ducked his head.He reached across and gave Hutch a light thump on the arm with his fist.“Same here.”He looked up quickly, happy and alive-looking.His eyes, Hutch noticed, were the color of the sky on a clear day.

_ We’ll make you into a flyboy yet, David Starsky. _

“C’mere.”He reached over and pulled Starsky into a hug.

Starsky hugged him back.“Right here, Hutch.Right here.”

<<<the end>>>


End file.
